Page 8 of The Marquess Match (Love’s a Game #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

A shford Drake had never been a man easily distracted. He had spent years cultivating an air of nonchalance, of indifference to everything and everyone who didn’t serve a direct purpose in his life. And until quite recently—this week, in fact—that had worked splendidly.

Now, however, he was distracted as hell.

And it was entirely Clare Handleton’s fault.

He was supposed to be enjoying this bloody house party, mingling with the eligible debutantes his sister had so helpfully assembled for him, and spending time with some of his closest friends. But instead, he sat at breakfast ignoring Lady Penelope’s insipid remarks about the weather, half-listening to Lord Hastwell drone on about some estate in Derbyshire, and barely pretending to care about the details of the croquet match the ladies were organizing for the afternoon.

His mind was consumed with her .

With her sharp little smirk, the way her breath had caught when he touched her, the feel of her mouth against his.

And worst of all—what she had said right before she left him after that kiss.

“I suppose now would be the time to confess that I’ve been infatuated with you for absolute ages.”

Those were the words he couldn’t erase from his memory. Didn’t want to erase.

Damn her.

She hadn’t appeared in the study last night either. He’d waited around like a foolish lad with a schoolboy’s fancy. He’d tried to read the same blasted uninteresting book again, paced in front of the fireplace for what felt like hours. He’d even downed nearly three glasses of brandy. But she hadn’t arrived.

By the time he returned to his room and fell backwards onto his bed in a frustrated heap last night, he supposed it was for the best. After all, it wasn’t as if they could have a future together. Despite his sister’s insistence on his taking a wife, he was a confirmed bachelor, and Lady Clare was a ruined woman. A match between them, or even a friendship between them, was unthinkable. It was only prudent to cut things off after one kiss.

But when he awoke this morning, the memory of Clare dancing in his arms last night, was the first thought in his head, and he hadn’t been able to think of much else since. That and the impudent comment she’d made at the end of their dance. He couldn’t get any of it out of his mind. By the time the midday sun streamed through the tall, mullioned windows of Southbury Hall, Ash was thoroughly done with pretending to be interested in anything else.

It was true. He’d never been so distracted, and there was only one thing he could think to do about it. He had to learn more about what she’d said.

And then, as if summoned by sheer will, he saw her.

She was alone, walking down the corridor toward the west wing, seemingly unaware of the havoc she had wrought upon his thoughts. Her hair gleamed in the soft light, her expression unreadable, her figure far too tempting in that pale-green day dress.

He acted without thinking.

Lifting a hand, he caught her attention with a subtle motion, inclining his head toward an open doorway.

Her brows lifted slightly, but after the barest hesitation, and a quick glance about, she slipped inside.

Ash followed, shutting the door behind him.

The drawing room was quiet, the heavy drapes drawn just enough to soften the afternoon light. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers hung in the air, but Ash barely registered it.

All he could sense was her.

Clare folded her arms across her chest, regarding him with that same damned knowing half-smile that had been driving him mad for days. “Well, this is intriguing,” she said lightly. “Is this how you lure women into empty rooms, my lord?”

“Only the ones who kiss me senseless and then disappear into the night,” he shot back.

Her lips twitched, but she held his gaze steadily. “I don’t recall you putting up much of a fight.”

“I was too busy trying to keep my wits about me,” he admitted, stepping closer. “Not that it worked.”

Something flickered in her expression—something pleased. “Also, I seem to recall that you kissed me ,” she added.

She liked knowing she had unsettled him. He could tell.

He exhaled sharply. “What exactly did you mean, Clare?”

Her brows furrowed. “About what?”

“Don’t play coy.” His voice dropped slightly. “When you said you’d been infatuated with me forever—what exactly did you mean?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if surprised by his insistence. Then, after a beat, she lifted her chin and said, “Just what I said.”

Ash’s stomach tightened.

He had been prepared for teasing, for deflection, for one of her sharp little quips.

But not for honesty. Not for the simple, matter-of-fact way she said it.

And that? That did something to him.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “A man cannot erase such a thing from his memory.”

Clare tilted her head slightly, studying him. Then she smiled. A slow, knowing smile. “Then we are even because I don’t think I can erase such a kiss from my memory either.”

Ash stilled. Heat unfurled low in his stomach, something dangerous and utterly consuming taking root.

Hell .

She wasn’t playing any longer.

Neither was he.

He took another step forward, closing the space between them. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching the way her breath hitched as he moved closer.

“Then,” he murmured, voice husky with intent, “what do you propose we do about it?”